rights activist, a young Zapata liberator of the poor and the downtrodden. In short, a revolutionary. Coyote-as-Che. Jesús certainly fed himself these ideas, if his testimony is to be believed.
Being a Coyote, even a lowly guía, was also muy macho. Jesús had suddenly gone from being a put-upon poor boy making bricks in the wicked Sonoran heat to being an outlaw. He was Lil’ Pancho Villa. He had the immense forces of the United States federal government after him. His own government was putting up signs asking him to stop.
And he had money. He had a crib. He had a good-looking
morra
to play house with. He had dangerous men watching his back. He had a cell phone. He had songs being sung about him on the radio and in the cantinas.
He even had a patron saint of illegals watching over his endeavor.
Toribio Romo was originally a priest from Jalisco. He was shot in one of the many revolts that dot Mexican history. His folk power is ascendant. There are Saint Toribio prayer books that migrants carry with them. There are Saint Toribio T-shirts, religious pictures, and scapulars. And there are tales of Saint Toribio’s amazing miracles—heavenly interventions: migrants finding water, migrants escaping certain death, migrants outwitting the Migra, lost migrants being delivered unto the pickup point. Selah.
The famous immigrant’s prayer that graces the Saint Toribio’s prayer book has even made it into the
New York Times
. It’s a kind of United Nations affirmation: “I believe I am a citizen of the world, and of a church without borders.” See that? No borders! God said so!
Vamonos, muchachos: next stop, Chi-Cago.
Another prayer: Blessed be the outlaws. Living outside the law was as dizzying as tequila.
Jesús went into the desert a boy, and he was led to believe the rigors of El Negro’s world would make him a man.
The forces arrayed against Jesús and Saint Toribio were formidable.
American pundits regularly insist that the border needs to be militarized. In a very real way, much of the Devil’s Highway region
is
militarized. The Barry M. Goldwater Air Force Range sprawls between the Gila Mountains to the far west and the Sand Tank Mountains to the east. One of the mountains on the base, ironically enough known as Coyote Peak, is a landmark for smugglers. If you make it to Coyote Peak, you are only miles from I-8 and the turgid waters of the irrigation canals. In the east end of the basin, north of the base, a string of mountains known as the ABCs (Antelope, Baker, Copper) lead you north to salvation. But Marines share the vast base with the jet jockeys, and they prowl the desert in camo Humvees. Air National Guard aircraft fly over from Tucson. Helicopters, jets, bombers. UFOs.
Beside the bombing range lies the Organ Pipe Cactus National Monument. Organ Pipe has the dubious honor of being known as the most dangerous national park in America. Drug and human smugglers use it as a freeway, and officers are at risk every day of their assignments. Law is represented there by armed rangers and the federal Cactus Cops, the officers of the Forest Service, Department of the Interior, and Bureau of Land Management.
Farther to the east of Organ Pipe is the Tohono O’Odham reservation, patrolled by tribal police. South of Yuma, it’s the Cocopah Reservation. Between Yuma and Ajo, it’s 150 miles of sheriff’s territory. East of this area is the Pinal Air Park, a weird landing strip full of bloated cargo jets that shimmer in the heat waves. Local folklore suggests that Pinal is also home to a CIA airbase.
All along the line, the tireless Border Patrol drives, flies, walks. They hit the trails on small ATVs like weekend dune buggy enthusiasts. The heroic BORSTAR rescuers hunt for people in trouble. The secretive BORTAC SWAT troops (called “the hunter-killers” by one Cactus Cop) go on their covert missions. A legendary unit of Customs flits in and out of the night like ghosts, the “Shadow Wolves,” Native
Being a Coyote, even a lowly guía, was also muy macho. Jesús had suddenly gone from being a put-upon poor boy making bricks in the wicked Sonoran heat to being an outlaw. He was Lil’ Pancho Villa. He had the immense forces of the United States federal government after him. His own government was putting up signs asking him to stop.
And he had money. He had a crib. He had a good-looking
morra
to play house with. He had dangerous men watching his back. He had a cell phone. He had songs being sung about him on the radio and in the cantinas.
He even had a patron saint of illegals watching over his endeavor.
Toribio Romo was originally a priest from Jalisco. He was shot in one of the many revolts that dot Mexican history. His folk power is ascendant. There are Saint Toribio prayer books that migrants carry with them. There are Saint Toribio T-shirts, religious pictures, and scapulars. And there are tales of Saint Toribio’s amazing miracles—heavenly interventions: migrants finding water, migrants escaping certain death, migrants outwitting the Migra, lost migrants being delivered unto the pickup point. Selah.
The famous immigrant’s prayer that graces the Saint Toribio’s prayer book has even made it into the
New York Times
. It’s a kind of United Nations affirmation: “I believe I am a citizen of the world, and of a church without borders.” See that? No borders! God said so!
Vamonos, muchachos: next stop, Chi-Cago.
Another prayer: Blessed be the outlaws. Living outside the law was as dizzying as tequila.
Jesús went into the desert a boy, and he was led to believe the rigors of El Negro’s world would make him a man.
The forces arrayed against Jesús and Saint Toribio were formidable.
American pundits regularly insist that the border needs to be militarized. In a very real way, much of the Devil’s Highway region
is
militarized. The Barry M. Goldwater Air Force Range sprawls between the Gila Mountains to the far west and the Sand Tank Mountains to the east. One of the mountains on the base, ironically enough known as Coyote Peak, is a landmark for smugglers. If you make it to Coyote Peak, you are only miles from I-8 and the turgid waters of the irrigation canals. In the east end of the basin, north of the base, a string of mountains known as the ABCs (Antelope, Baker, Copper) lead you north to salvation. But Marines share the vast base with the jet jockeys, and they prowl the desert in camo Humvees. Air National Guard aircraft fly over from Tucson. Helicopters, jets, bombers. UFOs.
Beside the bombing range lies the Organ Pipe Cactus National Monument. Organ Pipe has the dubious honor of being known as the most dangerous national park in America. Drug and human smugglers use it as a freeway, and officers are at risk every day of their assignments. Law is represented there by armed rangers and the federal Cactus Cops, the officers of the Forest Service, Department of the Interior, and Bureau of Land Management.
Farther to the east of Organ Pipe is the Tohono O’Odham reservation, patrolled by tribal police. South of Yuma, it’s the Cocopah Reservation. Between Yuma and Ajo, it’s 150 miles of sheriff’s territory. East of this area is the Pinal Air Park, a weird landing strip full of bloated cargo jets that shimmer in the heat waves. Local folklore suggests that Pinal is also home to a CIA airbase.
All along the line, the tireless Border Patrol drives, flies, walks. They hit the trails on small ATVs like weekend dune buggy enthusiasts. The heroic BORSTAR rescuers hunt for people in trouble. The secretive BORTAC SWAT troops (called “the hunter-killers” by one Cactus Cop) go on their covert missions. A legendary unit of Customs flits in and out of the night like ghosts, the “Shadow Wolves,” Native
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